


Wolfman

by neverbirds



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Werewolf Transformation, and stuff, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:33:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverbirds/pseuds/neverbirds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is Remus, the oxymoron. The werewolf. The not-quite-boy who knows too much about pain." ; A short introspective piece on being a monster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolfman

**Author's Note:**

> Still uploading really old fic I wrote when I was 15, for some reason. My first and only HP fic to date, even though I have about a million wolfstar fics started and never finished. Also possibly the only time I've written a gen fic? Even though gen fics are fab & gr8.

This is not something you get used to.

On some level, he's not sure that he wants to. He still flinches when his bones crack.

Remus isn't human, not really. He knows this because nobody bothers to tell him otherwise. He's not wolf, either – he's not even somewhere in between. No; he's something else entirely, something he knows his friends can't quite put their finger on. In all honesty, he can't, either. He smells of dust and books and dried blood, of wet fur and saliva. He smells like chocolate and a rainy day, and his body is an angry myriad of scars; sometimes red and weeping, but mostly pale purple whispers of many moons ago. They criss-cross and entangle, interlacing into a network; the perplexing web that is Remus Lupin. When he's feeling particularly philosophical, he wonders if the spider is God.

He can feel his jaw rearranging. His teeth ache.

The truth is, Remus doesn't know what he is. He's a hybrid of awkward teenage boy and bloodthirsty wolf, mutating into something new but far from exciting. "Dangerous" seems to be a more suitable word. Terrifying. Murderous.

(blood everywhere blood kill smell fear power blood tear flesh anger blood)

His hands swell; the skin stretches over his aching bones like putty, pulling on all the edges of his fingers and yellowing under the strain.

Most of the time, he pushes the thought aside – that he's an unidentifiable creature, not quite human and not quite beast. He loses himself in the laughter of his friends, in the pages of fading novels, the spines cracked and brittle. This is when he feels like a boy. Once a month, he is a monster.

(fear choke blood kill fear trapped free trapped fear blood pain rip hurt ache blood)

Remus can only come to one conclusion: he is a living, breathing oxymoron.

Snap, and his spine's gone, cracking and twisting and distorting. Like paint in water, only this is a lot more violent and definitely more painful. His vision alters swiftly; sharper, brighter. He's succumbing to the mind of the monster, but Remus has always prided himself with intelligence; he knows that he doesn't transform into the monster, turn into it. The wolf is always there, breathing and itching under his skin –

(kill kill blood smell kill flesh anger red blood tear howl kill)

– a poison in his blood. He is infected and diseased, and has been since he was six years old. This illness – this illness is all he knows. He is, beneath his layers of intellect and fumbling kisses in the dark, a werewolf.

He watches with the familiar, dull ache of horror twisting in his stomach like angry snakes as fur pushes its way through his brittle skin as easily as sweat. There's a howl caressing in the back of his throat, pushing against his hot wet tongue and sharp fangs, both new and old at the same time. The familiar unfamiliarity. Oxymoron.

(fire burn pain howl blood tear flesh pain blood fear fear howl whimper blood hurt)

His breathing is laboured, quicker. He's taller and stronger and angry; his senses are more acute, his thoughts simpler. He is no longer boy, no longer human. Not that he ever was in the first place.

He has a snout for a nose, but it isn't any less Remus. Not really.

He still smells like chocolate and rainy days. He is still a myriad of scars; you just have to know where to look.

No; this is Remus, the oxymoron. The werewolf. The not-quite-boy who knows too much about pain.

This – this is not something you get used to. The howling; the burning itch of it beneath his skin. Beneath his web of scars.


End file.
